


Planetary Movements

by TargaryenSlytherin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TargaryenSlytherin/pseuds/TargaryenSlytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored and annoys John until he breaks down and says he'll entertain him<br/>In a manner that even Sherlock hadn't quite deduced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Planetary Movements

**Author's Note:**

> \- This story is unfinished so far and is rated differently for now but will be rated differently once updated/completed -

John. Bored.  
-SH

Sherlock, I’m out buying groceries. Since you refused to.

That does not help my situation in the very least, John.  
-SH

Well, you could come with me next time. Or do it on your own.

No.  
-SH

How did you get your groceries before I moved in?

Mrs. Hudson.  
-SH

John? Answer.  
-SH

Sherlock, I’m at the cashier’s! Give me a moment!

A moment is over, John.  
-SH

Sherlock! Just … A moment doesn’t even have an exact length!

Wrong.  
-SH

Please don’t give me a lecture on this.

What a shame, I was halfway through with typing it.  
-SH

Thank God.

John.  
-SH

Bored.  
-SH

There’s a head in the fridge.

Yes, very good observation skills, John.  
-SH

Entertain yourself with that. Do some experiments, I don’t know. Give me some peace, I’ll be back soon enough anyways.

I have to wait another 8 days, 23 hours and 43 minutes exactly before I can continue with that head, John. Which for future reference, equal to exactly 143.811111 moments. Bored.  
-SH

Are you telling me that we will be having a rotting human head in the fridge for over a week? Sherlock, that is disgusting, even for you.

How is that disgusting, John, it is a perfectly natural process.  
-SH

As are planetary movements. Specifically the Earth revolving around the Sun.

We have been through this topic already, John. I do not care for such trifles. Not important. Boring, in fact.  
-SH

Oh dear God. I’ll be there in 5 minutes. Please don’t start shooting at the wall again. It drives Mrs. Hudson mad.

 

Sherlock was sitting in his usual armchair, wallowing in his usual navy silk mindpalace when John entered, being weighed down by grocery bags. His fingertips were massaging his temples, eyes closed, his breathing shallow and painstakingly regular.

“No, I don’t need help, I can manage. Thank you very much for asking.”

“John,” Sherlock answered, eyes still closed, fingertips still massaging, “ _that_ was not 5 minutes.”

“So it was a bit more than 5 minutes,” he replied, dumping the bags on the kitchen table that for once was only half-cluttered, “it isn’t an exact measurement of time, Sherlock. It’s an approximation.”

“I dislike approximations,” his eyes flew open, fingertips lifting off of his temples, hovering just millimeters from the skin, shaking ever so slightly. He stormed off of the armchair, sauntering over to the desk and picking up a revolver. He pointed it at the wall.

“No, Sherlock!”

John ripped the gun away from him, while simultaneously maneuvering him away towards the armchair, his hand on his waist.

“Sit.”

“John – “

“No, Sherlock, sit. Don’t shoot at the wall,” his head gave a little shake, a customary mannerism that Sherlock had noted straight away. His navy robe fanned out around him as John pushed him into the armchair.

“Well, what else am I supposed to do, I’m _bored_.”

“Read a book.”

“I’ve already read all that are worth reading.”

“Alright, watch a movie.”

“A _movie_ , John – “

“A documentary, then.”

“About what? There’s nothing – “

“Planetary movements.”

“John – “

“How many moments does it take for the Earth to go around the Sun once?”

“John – “

“How many moments does it take to pronounce the name of our current prime minister – “

“I won’t cloud my brain with such nonsense.”

John sat down at the desk, switching on his laptop. Sherlock noted that there no longer were any women’s hair strands clinging to his sweater. There hadn’t in a while.

“Fine. Just don’t shoot at the wall.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again, and resumed the position he had held when John came back with the groceries. He didn’t note John’s eyes constantly flitting to his resting face, lingering especially long on the sharp cheekbones.

“John. Stop typing. It’s annoying.”

“I’m writing my blog, Sherlock.”

“Again? What are even writing about, we haven’t had a case in 3 weeks.”

“I don’t only write about the cases, Sherlock.”

“Well, why would anybody read posts about your private life? What do you even say about it? Do you publish the poems you used to send to your girlfriends? Or the lack of girlfriends in your life of late?” Sherlock couldn’t help himself.

John glanced up at him with a resigned look, slightly hurt as well but trying to hide it, as Sherlock noted. A trifle tired as well. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“John, I – “

“It’s fine.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He glanced up.

“You’re _what_?” he asked, half incredulous.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, bringing his hands together in a prayer-like position, touching them against his chest, and exhaled slowly through his nose. He raised his head slightly, eyes trained on a corner of the ceiling.

“I apologize,” he said, bringing his hands apart. He could tell that John was surprised with this recent development. His brow furrowed.

“Why are you so surprised that I said sorry?”

“Well – well, you usually don’t. In fact, you’re kind of an idiot.”

“How can you be kind of an idiot? An Idiot is not a measurement nor a type of – “

“Okay, I get it, never mind.”

The room lapsed into clicking and typing, and some occasional loud breathing on Sherlock’s part soon joined by rustling caused by thrashing around on the armchair.

“Sherlock – “

“I am _bored._ ”

“I don’t care Sherlock, I need some peace and quiet.”

“Ugh, tell me about it. I would love some peace and quiet occasionally.”

“Well, get some.”

Sherlock sat up.

“How?”

“Take some time off, stop shooting walls. Sleep in, take a walk, I don’t know. Stop thinking.”

“No, no,” he ruffled his hair with both hands, “that won’t do. I can’t stop thinking. It drives me mad. You people with your funny little brains, you must know what it’s like to have some peace and quiet. Tell me, John, is it blissful?”

“Blissful - ? Sherlock – “

“Oh, what am I saying, of course it is. But it gets boring quicker.”

At this point John just shook his head and let Sherlock break the silence occasionally with his blabs, ignoring him largely, though the impatience in him was building up inside.

“John – “

“ _Sherlock, please for the love of God I will entertain you just give me a few moments of peace.”_

Sherlock opened his right eye and peered at John, hands still folded against his chest, closed his eye again and nodded.

“I give you six moments John.”

John was cursing at his screen as he tried to figure out how many minutes of peace that would give him knowing full well that he would not get one single minute of peace out of these six moments. He didn’t even notice Sherlock’s little close-eyed grin.

“Fine, I give up. You win.”

Sherlock sat up straighter, eyes open, hands apart.

“Excellent. Now – “

“Hold up,” John held up one hand before pointing at Sherlock, “how long is one moment?” he brought his hands together on his lap, another mannerism of his, “how much time did I hypothetically have?”

“Well, considering that a moment is a medieval unit of time equal to 1/40 of an hour, or in minutes, 1.5 minutes. That makes six moments nine minutes.”

“Sherlock,” John shook his head again, “ _a medieval_ unit of time. It’s not the same nowadays.”

“Yes, it’s also not the same in the Hebrew calendar, John,” he paused for a ninth of a moment of medieval time measurement, “you said you’d entertain – “

“Right, right, okay,” he lifted himself out of the chair with both hands and shut his laptop without bothering to turn it off.

“Wait here, alright. I’ll be just a momen – a minute.”

“Alright,” fingertips together again, eyes closed, “sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight … “

“Oh for fuck’s sake, make that three minutes then,” John hurried into the bedroom and shut the door to muffle Sherlock counting backwards from one hundred eighty.

He delved back into the closet, pulling a box out of the way to reveal another box from which he carefully pulled something he had acquired several weeks ago as the outcome of Sherlock getting drunk due to Mycroft’s sneer about how one could never truly expect to find Sherlock Holmes, the World’s first and only Consulting Detective do something _normal_ for a change. He talked even more when he was drunk, and John got to hear some stuff that took several days for him to process. One of them had been the reason he’d broken it off with his last girlfriend. Another had been this.

He inched open the door and stayed out of Sherlock’s sight.

“Thirteen, twelve, eleven – “

“Sherlock, close your eyes!” he called out. Sherlock’s counting broke off.

“What?” John could visualize Sherlock’s face as he uttered his response, the confused furrowing of his brow, the slight wrinkle of his nose.

“I said close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

“Ugh, fine,” he grumbled.

“Are they closed?”

“Yes.”

John peered through the crack of the door and saw Sherlock, hands folded against his chest, head resting on the back of the armchair, eyes truly closed.

He tiptoed out of the room, not quite closing the door and went over to the curtains to close them. Then he walked around the armchair and got ready to turn his plan and dream into reality. He positioned himself, tense yet feeling completely light-headed, his heart hammering. Hands at the ready.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

Sherlock opened his eyes while bringing his hands apart and lifting his head from the back only to jolt back against the chair, jerking his hands back where he had previously laid them down on John’s. his eyes were wide, and John was sure that nobody had ever achieved to etch that expression of Sherlock Holmes’ face before.

John took advantage of Sherlock’s rare momentary speechlessness to pull him up by his hands and propel him towards the bedroom.

“John – what – “

He pulled him into the bedroom, pushing the door closed behind them and, turning around, smirked at the clueless Consulting Detective. He slid his hands up Sherlock’s torso, resting at the top. His body nestled against Sherlock’s, corset on satin. Sherlock’s look of utter confusion started fading off into what nearly what looked like mild panic, as at the same time his body betrayed him to the cause.

His hands rested lightly on the back of John’s fishnetted thighs, but he hadn’t noticed.

“Uh, John – “

John boosted himself onto his tiptoes and gently pulled Sherlock down by his chin until their lips touched. He heard a sharp intake of breath through Sherlock’s nose, and his fingers dug into his legs briefly before being lifted away, hovering around uncertainly. But it was John who broke the kiss.

Sherlock had the most peculiar look on his face, a thousand emotions raging battle just underneath his skin. His hands slowly found John’s body and ran down his side slowly, stopping at the panties sitting on John’s waist. He moved his head forward, as if to kiss John again but stopped, uncertain. He took his hands off again, not knowing what to do with them.

They were gently grabbed out of their confused float in the air by John, clutching them gently in his as he gently pulled Sherlock into a hug. He carefully planted Sherlock’s arms around himself and laid his own arms around him, welcoming the satiny warmth radiating from his body. He could nestle his head on Sherlock’s shoulder against his soft neck.

Eventually Sherlock’s arms closed around him, his hands on his back, enclosed by his warmth like a hedgehog rolled into a little ball. His breath tickled Sherlock’s warm neck.

Slowly, carefully, he started nibbling on his neck. Sherlock gave a start and loosened his arms briefly, as if to pull away, but didn’t. John brought up his left hand to stroke the other side of Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock’s right hand found its way into John’s hair.

John slid his hands down to Sherlock’s narrow waist, and started to gently shift him towards the bed. Once Sherlock was sat on it, John slid onto his lap, facing him with a cheeky grin that looked quite strange yet quite attractive on the Afghanistan Veteran’s face. Sherlock backed down into the bed as John leaned in further until he was flat-out on his back, the mild look of alarm mingling with uncertainty.

“Kiss me?” John asked softly, sprawled over Sherlock in his Dr. Frank N. Furter outfit lacking only the appropriate make-up to go with it.

“I – “ Sherlock broke off, uncertain. Then he leaned in slowly, cautiously, turning his head a fraction to the left. Their lips met again and this time, Sherlock didn’t start pulling away.

His hands found John’s hair again and John allowed himself to be just a bit rougher with him. He gently bit Sherlock’s lower lip to beg for entrance, and, after a modern moment’s hesitation, his tongue was allowed in. Sherlock immediately pulled away, overwhelmed, but then kissed him back straight away before John could ask if he was alright. His tongue took up permanent residence in his mouth.

John started fumbling with the buttons of Sherlock’s blue pajamas, always pausing in case Sherlock wanted to stop him.

He didn’t.

Slowly he finished unbuttoning him, his bare chest now pressed against John’s corset. To John’s dismay, Sherlock started to pull away slowly, but suddenly it was John who found himself on his back, Sherlock’s hands at his sides and his mouth pressed against his neck, cheekbones rubbing pleasurably against his skin.

Sherlock pulled his head back, fingers unlacing the front of his corset, leaving them pressed against each other’s bare chests. This time it was Sherlock’s tongue that found entrance into John’s mouth and he shrugged his way out of his robe and pajama top, the motion of his muscular shoulders going unnoticed by John, whose eyes were closed.

John’s hands crept to the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms, pausing briefly, and then started slowly pushing it down. Sherlock pulled away abruptly, lingering over John’s body before launching himself off the bed. He grabbed his robe off the floor and pulled it on while heading for the door.

“Are you alright?” there was disappointment in John’s voice, a melancholy, wistful type of disappointment.

“Yeah, yeah,” he tried to reply casually, his voice breaking. He could feel the pounding in his own groin. He stopped at the door, hand resting on the door knob; forehead leaned against the cool wood, trying to fight the hot flush that was gripping him.

He wanted to go back, he _wanted_ to. He had never experienced such an utter uselessness of his mind. It was as if his body was rebelling against him; his brain was buzzing but numb at the same time, not spouting out thoughts as it usually did. His skin craved the touch of John’s fuzzy skin, his callused hands. Normally his body was commanded by his brain; today, his body rose to the job. Literally.

“I – I – yeah, okay. I’m sorry,” John tried to clear his throat from the lump in it. What had he done.

Suddenly Sherlock decided to let his body take over and he whirled around with a firm “No.”

He strode towards John, throwing his robe off again, and, taking John by his arms, pulled him down on top of himself. He made sure to be extra cooperative to make up for that momentary uneasiness that he had caused. His own uneasiness had fled for now.

He placed John’s hands back at the waistline of his pajamas, pulling them down slowly with John.


End file.
